


Just Watch Me

by waywardwondersmith



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (specifically Newfoundland who is an OC anyway but her death is important to Matthew), Attempted Kidnapping, Canadian Politics, Dysfunctional Family, FACE Family, FLQ, FrUK is very much in the background, Gen, Identity Issues, Matthew Williams can't catch a break, Past Character Death, Pierre Trudeau - Freeform, anglophone writer will probably butcher some french, canadian history, everyone is bad at feelings, october crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-28 00:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20957180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardwondersmith/pseuds/waywardwondersmith
Summary: On October 5th, 1970, the Liberation Cell of the Front de libération du Québec kidnaps British Trade Commissioner James Cross, kicking off the October Crisis and rocking Canadian society to its core.The Homecoming Cell, meanwhile, fails to kidnap Canada himself, but the fallout of their attempt is no less of a crisis for Matthew Williams and those around him.





	Just Watch Me

**Author's Note:**

> Three years without posting a word on this site and it's goddamn Hetalia that gets me back into fic-writing. Of course. 
> 
> For those unfamiliar, since the October Crisis isn't very well-known outside Canada: the FLQ was just one member of the confusing rogues gallery that makes up the Quebec sovereignty/separatism debate; they were a separatist terrorist group active in the 1960s (mostly through bombings), with the 1970 Crisis generally seen as the peak of their importance as a political force. Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau's crackdown on them, including the one and only peacetime invocation of the War Measures Act in Canadian history, remains controversial to this day. 
> 
> I'm not from Quebec, but the idea of approaching the October Crisis from Matthew's point of view has been kicking in my head for a long time. I won't give away my plans, but I hope this story can be a unique look at a very confusing time. This issue is also still touchy, so I want to be clear that the politics and views discussed are not necessarily my own, and I certainly don't intend to use this fic as a soapbox from which to advocate for any one opinion. 
> 
> This chapter makes reference to several non-canon characters: Robert Côté and the various government officials are all real people who were involved in the crisis, while the two FLQ members, Daniel Cohen, and Sophie Gagnon are all purely fictional.
> 
> Without further ado, I hope you enjoy, and perhaps learn something you didn't know about Canada!

There’s a joke here somewhere, Matthew thinks.

The felquiste and his wingman would look plenty funny walking into a bar, dressed like that. Like they need the whole world to know how _very_ Québécois they are. One has a number-nine Habs jersey and nothing else to protect him from the October morning chill, which Matthew could respect if the man didn’t also have a revolver to accessorize. His partner, meanwhile, looks like a kid dressed up for Halloween a few weeks early as Henri Julien’s _Patriote_; his scarf is red, his toque is ragged, and his rifle is older than he is.

There’s definitely a joke here somewhere. Matthew desperately hopes he isn’t the punchline, even though it’s his front hall they stormed into rather than a bar.

“Safe’s in the basement,” Matthew says, because this would all be much easier if it were a robbery.

“I’m afraid that’s not what we’re here for, but we appreciate the gesture.” Nine jerks his head towards the door, like Matthew can’t already see what they want. “We’re going to need you to come with us, Monsieur Williams.”

“I figured,” Matthew mutters. “You know, last I heard, you were after the American consul. Aren’t I a little below your pay grade?”

The Patriote smiles. It scrunches up enough lines in his face to make him look older, but he can’t be more than twenty-five.

“You give yourself too little credit, Canada."

“What?” Matthew barely manages the one word. Canada is not the name these men should know him by.

Nine hisses. “Don’t start. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t know who you are. We can have the conversation of how and why we know after you come with us. I won’t ask again.”

“We want to help you. Free you along with everyone in French Canada,” the Patriote adds. His voice is too gentle, and Matthew wants to spit at that kindness as much as he wants to flee from it. It's so kind it leaves Nine rolling his eyes and a voice in the back of Matthew’s mind is _screaming_ to take advantage of that moment of weakness, but they know his name and what the hell is he supposed to do about that?

“You can’t help me,” Matthew breathes, because facts are steadying. Surely that much is still a fact. 

“Good to know," Nine sneers. "Do _us_ a favour, then? Before this gets messy?”

“No. If you know who I am, you know can’t hurt me. Not like I could hurt you.” The words waver, and Matthew wishes he had it in him to hate these intruders as much as he hates the weakness of his own voice. Threats don’t belong on his lips, and Nine’s eyes light up with that very realization.

“Good point,” he says, and fires.

* * *

The original settlers tried to make “New France” stick first, as if the meek little boy they were looking at could really claim so much land for himself. It was only later that they clued in that he was tethered to the St. Lawrence, and lacked the strength to reach much further. The local peoples had been there a lot longer than he had, and certainly longer than any Europeans, and they had a word for their village that the French were happy to mistake for “Canada.” A grand name for a new country, regardless of its humble origins.

Funny, what sticks and what doesn’t. "Canada" is a lot easier for Anglophones to pledge allegiance to than "New France," after all.

* * *

Consciousness returns in fits and starts.

There’s a headache before anything else. Later, Matthew will realize that the Patriote hit him with the butt of his rifle, a half-step behind Nine’s attack, but for now, he’s fuzzy enough to wonder how Nine could shoot him in the kidney and the parietal lobe at the same time.

(So he’s in pain. What else is new?)

There’s a pair of voices.

There’s darkness, even when Matthew remembers he can open his eyes.

There’s the smell of road salt. Of blood. Eventually, the realization that it’s a blanket crusted with both that’s keeping the world dark.

There’s a distinct lack of handcuffs or rope or any of the other restraints Matthew would expect, but then, there’s no need to tie up a dead man. They couldn’t have known how fast he would wake up, that he's quick to heal even by Nation standards.

If only Alfred could see him now; he’d probably hoot with delight and give the whole game away. Alfred was the last person to actually capture Matthew, and even he can admit he cheated in York.

A kidnapping, however, is completely novel. Matthew can’t think of a single other Nation who’s been stuffed into the back of a human stranger’s backseat. The kidnappers don’t give him long to admire the novelty of it.

The car jerks right, and Matthew can’t pick out one voice from the other in the haze yet, but he can tell it’s the passenger cursing out the driver because _chrissakes_, does he want to get caught? _Mais pourquois diable me fait ça?_

They haven’t noticed Matthew is awake yet. They don’t so much as pause for breath as Matthew pokes his head out from under the blanket and bites back a groan. It hurts to move. It hurts to look at anything for too long with his head still putting itself back together and his glasses nowhere to be found.

(Did they take them away on purpose, or were they just lost in the shuffle?)

Focus.

There’s nothing he can do about that right now.

There’s the Patriote in the driver’s seat. There’s Nine to his right, sulking with his eyes on the road.

There’s a lock on the door, but still nothing restraining Matthew from getting his hands on them.

There’s a red light. Matthew stifles another groan when the Patriote slams on the brakes, and Matthew has to tense muscles that aren’t in one piece so he doesn’t topple over.

(Wait for it.)

(Wait for it.)

(Wait—)

The light turns. The Patriote picks momentum back up quickly, too quickly to stop when Matthew sits up and tumbles out of the car.

“Fuck! Sam, _stop_—”

_crack _

There’s the pavement. A broken wrist isn’t the worst injury of the day.

Cars swerve to avoid Matthew. The Patriote (Sam?) slams on the brakes, and there’s a honk and a screech and the crash of one car rear-ending another. Matthew would enjoy it if he weren’t still in the road.

His first attempt to stand nearly sends him careening into the path of another car. Attempt two gets him vertical in time to watch the vehicle he’d just escaped from rip around the next corner, now that there are plenty of witnesses to call the police on them.

Speaking of…

Matthew waits for a path to open up, which doesn’t take long with everyone stopping to gawk at the show, or get their bearings amidst the confusion. The first business Matthew spots is a bakery whose windows are crammed with patrons.

It’ll have to do. If nothing else, Matthew needs to sit down before he purges the bullet or passes out again. Or both.

The patrons' eyes follow him in. He ducks his head.

“I’m sorry for all the trouble. Can I make a phone call?”

* * *

Robert Côté is just the man Matthew wants to see, but he shouldn’t be here _himself_. A subordinate would be plenty unless something else was wrong—

And, as Robert comes close enough for Matthew to make out his face, it looks like something is.

“Hi, Bob,” Matthew says.

“Williams.” Robert looks him up and down, and then gives the same scrutiny to the bakery’s proprietor, who has stood as if in vigil over Matthew’s shoulder since he put the phone back in the receiver. “

This is Daniel Cohen,” Matthew says. Cohen bobs his head in greeting.

“Recognize you from the papers,” he tells Robert. “Have to admit, I never expected you to show up in a place like this.”

Robert glances down at the dishrag Matthew holds against his wound.

“I haven’t told him anything,” Matthew says quickly, and Robert sighs.

“Maybe you should have. You realize what you look like?”

“Hospital-worthy?”

Robert grimaces. Something else is definitely wrong, or he could have made a joke by now.

“Can you walk?”

“Yeah. Help me up?”

Robert pulls him up by the underarms instead of taking either of Matthew’s bloodstained hands. The motion leaves Matthew whimpering despite himself, and he drops the bullet he’d left wrapped in the towel after it pushed his way from his flesh. He almost tries to pick it back up again, but Cohen whips out another dishrag as if from nowhere, and picks the bullet up with it despite shaking hands. Matthew redirects him to hand it over to Robert, then gives his own dishrag a guilty look. Cohen just flaps his hands. _Keep it. I never want to see that thing again. _

“Thank you. And I’m sorry again for all the trouble,” Matthew says. Cohen waves him off again, and Matthew takes it as an excuse to let himself tune out while Cohen and Robert talk.

There’s another pair of officers outside when Robert walks Matthew back to his cruiser. He remains outside the car for another moment to give them instructions, and the bullet, before he sidles in beside Matthew.

“You got yourself into a hell of a mess, you know that?” he grumbles. He roots in the glovebox for a packet of antiseptic wipes and takes one for himself before tossing Matthew the entire thing. “

What did you tell them?”

“How to deal with Cohen. And everyone else in there you scared the shit out of. Told them to say you’re a diplomat so they can’t answer questions. The usual, with you.”

Robert’s hands are tense on the steering wheel as they pull away. Cohen watches them leave from the doorway, and Matthew watches him shrink out of view.

He considers his dishrag and sighs. Cohen had shoved it into his hands while trying to convince Matthew to let him call an ambulance for him instead of just handing the phone over. Even when Matthew reluctantly pulled the “I work for the government” card to shut the debate down, he’d hovered over Matthew for the full twenty minutes between the phone call and Robert’s arrival.

“I’m sorry to drag you out here,” Matthew mumbles. Robert’s already white-knuckled grip tightens on the steering wheel.

“Don’t apologize. This is my job.”

There aren’t many others in the Montréal police force with the knowledge to deal with Matthew as he really is. Robert found out the truth early, during the first wave of FLQ bombings, but it took a while to convince him, and he trusted few others with the secret once he was on board. It’s the kind of trust Matthew can rarely find among police officers—let alone one as high up as the head of the bomb squad—and he’s grateful to have it, even if such a small circle of allies can be a mixed blessing when things go to pieces like this.

“There’s something else, though,” Matthew says. It’s an imperative, not a question, and Robert slumps over his steering wheel.

“Yeah. I didn’t want to trust this to a beat cop or some random first responder given….” He gestures vaguely in Matthew’s direction. “But I’ll have to turn around as soon as I get you to your doctor. There was… you weren’t the only target. And the others succeeded.”

Matthew inhales sharply, and then regrets the strain that it puts on his delicate new skin. Why hadn’t he thought of this?

Robert spares the road his gaze for long enough to give Matthew a sharp look. “You alright there?”

“Who did they take?”

“James Cross. Trade commissioner from England. You know him?”

“Met him once. He doesn’t know about Nations, I don’t think.”

Robert grunts, disinterested. “That’s probably not important right now. You aren’t mentioned in their communiqué.”

“No?”

“No. You’ll see yourself, if I can get you a copy, but the phrasing makes clear they’re only concerned with the one ransom. Either these were completely separate cells without enough contact to trade plans, or the ones after Cross didn’t think your guys would be successful.”

"Huh." Matthew can't decide if that's reassuring or not, and Robert doesn't tell him one way or the other.

* * *

The rest of the day slides away faster than Matthew wants it to.

His second call on Cohen’s phone had been to his personal doctor, Sophie Gagnon, who frog-marches him to an overnight bed. She tolerates neither his protests that he’s _fine, really_, nor any questions from other doctors who might get the wrong idea if they see Matthew’s wounds up close. She barely tolerates the babyfaced officer that Robert sends in to follow up with Matthew, and it’s his job to ask questions.

Did you see their faces, Mr. Williams? Describe them. Describe their car. Did you see the license plate? No? Well, whoever rear-ended them probably did. How about the weapons? A rifle? Jesus Christ, Mr. Williams, I’m glad you’re alright.

The officer departs with promises to be back with Robert once Matthew is no longer a patient, and leaves Matthew with the copy of the communiqué that Robert mentioned. As promised, not one word so much as hints at Matthew, even amidst the usual nationalistic ramblings from the manifesto. Their demands for funds, for safe passage to Cuba or Algeria—and those are conversations Matthew could go without—and for the release of their so-called political prisoners all hinge on James Cross, and him alone.

Matthew is grateful for that much, but unsettled despite himself too. If the FLQ doesn’t know that Canada himself is living right in their city, or at least doesn’t care if they do know, then what did those two want with him? No one seems able to answer that. When Sophie deems him fit enough to go sit in the lounge and make a few calls, he’s lucky when the people on the other end actually know what has happened. Cross is the priority, and Matthew has been lost in the shuffle several times over; he reaches Premier Bourassa to find him in the know, but distracted by everything else that had been on his plate before Matthew and Cross added to the headache. Then, Bourassa sends him over to the Justice Minister, who somehow hasn’t heard a word about Matthew yet and needs the entire story from the start.

Mr. Trudeau isn’t available, but his secretary assures Matthew that he has indeed gotten word of what happened, and he’ll talk in person if Matthew can get to Ottawa. The closest Matthew can get to the top of his government is Minister Sharp—External Affairs, of course, handling a foreign diplomat like Cross. Sharp is surprised to hear that Matthew is in the hospital, because by the time the story had gotten to him, someone had gotten their wires crossed and told him it was the kidnappers who had been hurt. He openly laments that Matthew couldn’t make his job easier and get them in for questioning, and his tone suggests he’s a little disappointed too by the simple fact that a pair of felquistes escaped an ass-kicking.

It’s after eight by the time Matthew has spoken to everyone he has to, though if anyone cared to ask, he’d be confident that he could have gotten through it faster if Sophie hadn’t dragged him away from the phones for a supper he could barely stomach. It’s with his eyes on the clock that he reluctantly dials one last number, this one long-distance.

“Do you know what time it is?” One in the morning, in London. Oops.

“Arthur. It’s me.”

“Oh, God. What have you done now?”

“It’s _Matthew_.”

“Oh.” There’s a rustle of sheets as Arthur sits up. “You do sound a bit like your brother over the phone.”

“Al’s not going to call you from Saigon,” Matthew says, and Arthur doesn’t even wait until he’s done to shush him.

“I don’t want to hear it. Loose lips and all that,” he says, and _Christ_, he’s getting out of bed now, dragging the phone with him into another room. He doesn’t do things by half measures.

“It’s not like that’s a secret,” Matthew mumbles, and he can _hear_ Arthur’s scowl.

“Forget him. I imagine this is about Cross? Because I do appreciate the concern, but I can’t—”

“Arthur. It’s not… it’s not Cross,” Matthew stumbles out, and Arthur stops dead. There’s nothing between them but static. God, Matthew can’t cry now. Of _course_ they didn’t think to tell Arthur about him. There was already so much else to worry about.

Matthew gives the shortest possible summary of his day, interrupted only by the odd clatter as Arthur stretches his phone’s cord from the bedroom to the kitchen to make some tea. 

“Well then. Perhaps this mess will finally convince you to take a holiday. I've only been telling you the seaside would do you good for ten-odd years,” Arthur finally says, and instead of a cry, it’s a near-hysterical laugh that escapes Matthew's lips and sends pain shooting up his torso.

“Last place I want to be right now is St. John's, Arthur." 

Arthur hums, close as he'll come to an apology for that. He’s never been comfortable with heart-to-hearts.

So Matthew presses on. "It's just... everything keeps getting worse. All the bombings, and the protests and—I should have seen something like this coming. You know they tried to kidnap the Israeli consul?”

Arthur makes a choked off noise; he remembers all too well.

“And the American one too, right?” he mutters darkly. “I suppose if nothing else, we should be glad it’s _you_ they went after and not your brother. We might have bodies on our hands.”

Matthew winces. They almost did, the way he got out of that car. With every hour that passes, his concussion recedes, and his actions look more foolish.

“I guess I’d rather be dealing with you than Israel over this,” Matthew concedes. “Even so, I’m scared for what they might try and do next. The two that went after me weren’t exactly criminal masterminds, but they caused a lot of trouble.”

“Putting it as mildly as ever,” Arthur snorts, and Matthew’s fist clenches on the phone. This isn’t _funny_.

“Point is, someone’s going to get hurt. We’re lucky more people _haven’t_ been hurt."

"Thanks in no small part to you. Working with your policeman," Arthur points out. Matthew wishes he could be so confident it was helpful.

"Yeah. You know, I can barely stand to be in the city sometimes? With how scared people are, I’m relieved when Trudeau sends me somewhere else, but then I worry about leaving the problem behind, and everyone out on the Prairies hates the separatist movement so much, and I don’t want—I don’t know _what_ I want, but it isn’t this.”

All of a sudden he’s much too aware of the English they’re speaking, and it leaves the words strange and clumsy on his tongue.

“Look, don’t take this the wrong way, I know you’re trying, and I’m glad you’re even listening,” Matthew says. “But… I wish I could talk to Francis about this. I didn’t think I should go to him first considering Cross, but now… I’m sorry. It’s not your fault, it’s just. French stuff.” As Matthew loses steam, Arthur makes a choking noise that suggests he’s very much taken it the wrong way.

“I’m sorry. I could have said that better,” Matthew mumbles, and there’s more of the same sputtering.

“No, no, no. That’s not—I mean—it’s a little to do with that, but not the way you think.”

“Arthur?”

“And first off, you mustn’t tell Alfred… or… or anyone, frankly—”

“Tell _what_?”

“Francis is _here_, Matthew,” Arthur says quickly. “He came to stay with me for his holiday. If you really need him now, I can wake him for you.”

Matthew would be content to sit and process that information, but Arthur is drumming his fingers on a table so loudly it might as well be in Matthew’s ear. It’s as agitated as he’s been all night.

“You really think I’d tell anyone that?” Matthew says softly, and Arthur makes several noises that aren’t words before he can answer.

“I—well. You can't be too careful with... matters like this.”

Matthew twists the cord of the telephone in his free hand. He’s watched Arthur and Francis perform their dance for as long as he’s known them, even if it took a few centuries of growing up to fully grasp what they weren’t saying out loud. That Arthur can admit to this is dizzying as a show of trust, but it isn’t a surprise either.

Eventually, Arthur coughs. “So, do you need me to get him?”

"No, it’s okay.”

It’s one thing to long for something as vague as a familiar shoulder to lean on, but quite another to have to think of what to say.

“You sure?”

“You know how he is when you interrupt his beauty sleep.”

The joke is forced, and so is Arthur’s chuckle.

Matthew tells him he’s running out of minutes even though he still has three more to go before he has to find Sophie for more change.

“Ah. I suppose I should leave you to rest and recover, then. Get your strength back up.”

“Yeah. Suppose you should go to bed too.”

“Oh, forget me."

"Still..."

"Still nothing. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon, what with Cross being one of mine. Shouldn’t be hard to convince Edward to send me in person.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have—”

“I want to,” Arthur says firmly. “I’m no bloody good over here, and _don’t_ you try to say otherwise to make me feel better. I’ll even see if I can bring the frog for you, if you'd like.”

Matthew gives a smile that Arthur can’t see. The insult is more comforting to hear than Arthur's stumbling attempts to be reassuring on purpose.

“Thank you. Really, thank you. And sorry again, for waking you.”

Arthur scoffs at the apology, but bids farewell. The line goes dead, and Matthew is left alone and exhausted.

He should go to bed, but he won’t be able to sleep on his front like this, and he’s not looking forward to trying. There was no need for stitches by the time he arrived, but Sophie still has the bandages on with a generous amount of tape just in case—_“since you won’t sit still, you reckless boy”_—and it takes all his willpower not to scratch at it.

The internal damage is a subtler itch. It doesn’t hurt unless he lets it draw his attention, but he’s run out of things to distract himself with. There’s nothing left but to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm reluctant to bog this story down with extensive historical footnotes (and, as of typing this, too tired to put any in right now) but rest assured I'm trying to be mostly historically accurate. The book that got me inspired to actually sit my ass down and write this story is called The Making of the October Crisis by D'Arcy Jenish, and it's both an excellent resource and a very interesting read.


End file.
